


Folie à trois

by PepperPrints



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: F/M, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-15
Updated: 2017-07-15
Packaged: 2018-12-02 16:18:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,379
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11512965
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PepperPrints/pseuds/PepperPrints
Summary: Partnering Frank Castle with Elektra seems like an unwise move. Luckily, however, they haven’t been scheming to overthrow Matt in favor of a more violent rampage through Hell’s Kitchen.Which isn’t to say they haven’t been planning something else entirely.





	Folie à trois

**Author's Note:**

> Since my basis of all these characters started in comics, I forgot that Frank doesn't explicitly know Matt's identity in Netflix-verse yet. Given that this is purely PWP for fun's sakes, we're going to assume everyone got full disclosure somewhere off-screen along the way.
> 
> This is also probably the most indulgent thing I've ever written. That's saying something.
> 
> Thanks, as ever, to Erika for editing for me.

It begins easily enough. They’ve always been told that this kind of  fight needs an army; luckily Matt knows where they can find one -- and the entire infantry is contained within a single person.

 

The initial offer, with the strict rule of the entire arrangement being non-lethal, doesn’t go well. Frank sneers, scoffs, and Matt can hear the drag of his tongue against his almost permanently split lips. Elektra steps in, apparently because the two of them speak in the same sort of language, and she’s the one who coaxes him towards consenting.

 

Matt never meditated on how the two of them are such similar people. The more he thinks about it, the more he wonders if he should be concerned. In retrospect, partnering Frank Castle with Elektra seems like an unwise move. It leaves Matt considerably outnumbered, and there’s very much the risk that they’ll find they agree with one another far more than they agree with him, then decide to make a new plan which better suits their more violent inclinations.

 

“Oh, I like him,” Elektra tells him once, her voice low and hurried either from excitement from watching Frank fight, or exertion from fighting herself -- or maybe a little of both.

 

“Should I be nervous?” Matt asks, half joking and nearly half sincere.

 

Elektra responds with a laugh, which is either comforting or concerning; Matt can’t settle on which. “You both do wear red well,” she tells him slyly, before she disappears into the fray again. It takes Matt a beat too long to recognize the implication of her response, and that her appreciation comes from the image of Frank Castle covered in blood.

 

More and more, Matt wonders at their strange symmetry.  Luckily, however, they haven’t been scheming to overthrow him in favor of a more violent rampage through Hell’s Kitchen.

 

Which isn’t to say they haven’t been planning something else entirely.

 

Realistically, Matt should have known this was coming. Elektra makes something of a career out of pushing Matt’s boundaries, trying to infect him with her insatiable appetite for anything and everything. Generally, it works, and Matt falls victim to the same fevered desperation, like some strange, excited folie a deux.

 

“What?” barely leaves Matt’s mouth in the too-still aftermath of a night chasing cars. No blood, no leads -- but apparently no frustration, either, since all three of them return to Matt’s apartment with an almost eerie sort of calm. Whatever careful opportunity Elektra has been waiting for, this is it, and her mouth finds his.

 

There’s a teasing lightness to the kiss. Her teeth graze his lower lip, gripping down and tugging so gently before she lets go again. Her hand cups his chin, her thumb tracing the spot where her mouth just left.

 

Matt attempts a step back, then stalls himself. The motion would knock him against Frank’s chest, and knowing the man well enough, it would be like stepping up against a brick wall. Pulse abruptly thudding, Matt tries to swallow the sudden lump in his throat, to relatively no success.

 

“I know you can’t watch me kiss him,” Elektra practically purrs, “but would it still be good for you?”

 

“Elektra,” Matt answers warily, almost like he’s entreating -- towards what, he isn’t sure, but his body stays tense between the two of them, and he doesn’t flinch when Elektra reaches past him to take a handful of Frank’s jacket.

 

As she pulls him closer, Matt can feel the pressure of him at his back, all stiff muscle and intimidation. Elektra leans up over Matt’s shoulder to kiss him, guiding Frank in with her grip on the front of his coat.

 

She’s right; Matt can’t take any of the typical thrills from this, but that doesn’t mean it’s at all lost on him. He can’t see the two of them, but he can hear the low grumble of an exhale that stutters on the way out of Frank’s chest, and the contented sort of sigh that Elektra breaths into his mouth. She presses closer, pushing up against Matt in order to get closer to Frank, and bumping him back into the heavy wall that is Frank’s chest. Pressed between the two of them, he can hear the slick sound of Elektra’s tongue pushing into Frank’s mouth, and feel him cringe just so slightly when she deliberately bites down on his already broken lip.

 

While Matt seems uncertain where to put his hands, Elektra has no such reservations. With one hand keeping a steadying grip on Frank, the other sweeps up to bury into Matt’s hair, holding him in place as she moves from Frank’s mouth to his. A sound that’s driven equally by surprise as much as sensation leaves Matt’s throat, swallowed up by Elektra’s grinning lips.

 

“Can you taste him?” she asks lowly, and Matt feels hazy. He can; she put him into his mouth, and he tastes black coffee and blood and little else.

 

God.

 

Frank breathes shallow and short at Matt’s back, the heat of it brushing through Matt’s hair. He’s sturdy as Matt tentatively leans back against him, taking the brunt of Matt’s weight as if he barely feels it. While his pulse is loud, it’s surprisingly steady, and the thought brings a rueful smile to Matt’s face. Persistently calm under pressure; it’s almost a bit concerning. When he thinks about the origins of that, he feels a pang of loneliness -- and a strange, consuming desire to make that composure crack.

 

There it is again: that sense of shared psychosis. It almost sounds like Elektra… their familiar folie a deux.

 

Trois now, he amends mentally, as Frank’s hand finds a place at his hip, so close to where Matt’s cock is starting to strain against his costume. The count’s gone up.

 

“Okay,” Matt says slowly and deliberately, his hand lifting to bury his fingers back into the short, soft strands of Frank’s hair. “Okay.”

 

That’s apparently all either of them need. Frank still moves with less fervor than Elektra, but at least he’s moving at all. His head tilts against Matt’s, and there’s an unfamiliar scratch of stubble against his own. There’s a slow, surety to Frank’s motions, his head bowing in the crook of Matt’s neck as he sets himself there with tongue and teeth. The sensation feels magnified when Elektra, now seeming impossibly soft, kisses him again, her hands making quick work of undressing him. Tugging the zippers down, Elektra pushes his shirt open, her palms pressing to bare flesh.

 

Hissing softly, Matt’s fingers unconsciously tighten in Frank’s hair. Between the two of them, he’s caught uncharacteristically uncertain. Knowing what to do with himself becomes lost in a series of reactions, arching towards Elektra or sinking towards Frank; the soft press of her breasts on his chest or the hard outline of Frank’s cock at his back. There doesn’t seem to be space for Matt to move on his own, or to coherently touch either of them in return. Then, abruptly, Elektra is stepping back, and the absence feels like an ache.

 

“Turn around,” Elektra prompts, bringing him back to focus. Initially, all Matt can do is oblige, far too dazed to think of anything other than following her suggestion. As he does, her hands rise to the back of his costume, pulling away the upper layer completely now and letting it drop to the floor. It could be as simple as that: she only needs the space to strip him properly -- but it quickly becomes a bit more than that. The gap between them is closed again as Elektra comes forward, but now he’s facing Frank.

 

With a sudden unease, Matt realizes Frank hasn’t said anything at all since this began -- which isn’t unlike him, all things considered, but he’d rather have some measure of response out of him. He seems content enough to touch Matt, even if he’s reserved about it, so Matt ought to return the gesture. Reaching out, his hand rests on the armor covering Frank’s chest, palm flat, fingers splayed. He still feels warm; his heart still pounds.

 

“You too?” Matt offers with a tug on his coat, voice casual in a way that either will be endearing or grating. Frank doesn’t so much as grumble in reply, but his stillness seems to betray just how affected he is, rather than the absence of it. Breathing slowly through his parted and surely bruised lips, he’s pliant when Matt urges the coat off of his shoulders, and unclips the fastening on his plated chest.  When Matt touches him again, it’s skin to skin, and his fingertips touch a road map of violence written over Frank’s chest.

 

There’s a splattering of ruined flesh -- shrapnel? -- a rigid and surely surgical mark along his abdomen, then more than once there’s the distinctive crater of a bullet.

 

Matt reads his scars like braille. They speak more freely than Frank ever does.

 

Elektra bows her head to his shoulder, her lips tracing a set of freckles there that Matt hasn’t seen in years but knows still linger. “Oh,” she intones, in her own open appreciation, as her hand slips around to unbuckle Matt’s belt. Her other arm slips around, and Matt can feel her cupping Frank’s face. “Would you do something for me? Just for me.”

 

In the haze of this, it’s hard for Matt to immediately determine if she’s speaking to Frank or to him. In the end, he supposes it doesn’t matter. He can hear Elektra push her thumb into Frank’s mouth, the audible little click of her nail against his teeth, and the way she opens him up comes as an obvious invitation. Frank’s next exhale feels hot against his cheek, and Matt leans up, kissing Frank around the lingering presence of Elektra’s thumb.

 

The groan that Frank breathes into Matt’s mouth acts like an unraveling thread, pushing out tension along with the air from his lungs. The pressure that Elektra pushes against his jaw keeps his mouth open, pliant, and doesn’t give him the bearing to take command of the kiss. It forces him to stay open, letting Matt delve his tongue deep as Elektra traces the shape of his teeth.

 

She stays there, moving deliberately in and out of Frank’s mouth between pushing against the sharp edge of his canines. Her breathy, appreciative little sound is loud against Matt’s ear, and he can connect the dots between what she finds so appealing: it’s touching something so dangerous, and making it melt instead. Like having her hand in a tiger’s maw, and making it purr.

 

Her hand is wet from Frank’s saliva when she uses it to touch him. Having already loosened his belt, Elektra slips her hand under his costume, cupping Matt’s hard cock and squeezing. Gasping out against Frank’s mouth, Matt doesn’t even have much space to rock up against her hand that doesn’t immediately press him towards Frank.

 

It’s different. Leaning up towards Frank, Matt is acutely aware of the smooth plain of his chest against his own, the coarse hair dusting over scarred skin, the calluses on his hand when he touches Matt’s elbow.  He wishes Frank would speak, rather than hold a stubborn silence. In absence of his words, it inspires him to try to earn sound out of him: a rare grunt of exertion or a surprisingly soft sigh.

 

Elektra makes a thoughtful noise, and then she’s shoving Matt’s pants down off his hips. After a moment of absence, one hand grips his hip, while the other presses cool, slick fingers up against him. Matt stutters out a sound, not quite objection but clear surprise, and Elektra hushes him coyly.

 

“Deep breaths, love,” she encourages, and then she’s pressing her fingers up inside of him.

 

Choking on a strangled noise, Matt bucks up on sheer mindless impulse. Basic instinct wants him to resist, tightens his body down as Elektra patiently holds her fingers still inside of him. She kisses the back of his neck, hums a soft praise against his skin, and Matt’s heart hammers.

 

“It's cold, I know,” she murmurs, as if that's what shocks him most of all, “but you're warming right up...”

 

The only thing he can grip onto coherently is Frank, whose unmoving bulk is for once comforting instead of off-putting. “Shit,” he hisses, one arm thrown around Frank’s broad shoulders while the other reaches back uselessly for Elektra. He finds a hold on her hip eventually, squeezing there as he’s stuck tight between the two of them.

 

Breathing heavy and laboured, Matt steadies himself. Almost embarrassingly hard, Matt can’t help rocking his hips, grinding himself against up Frank’s clothed erection, and back down against Elektra’s hand. It's almost too much, until a rhythm starts to settle in, and then Matt follows it. Elektra mouths along his shoulder, Frank tastes the sweat on his forehead, and Matt starts to move between them shakily.

 

“Yeah,” he agrees faintly, lacking to coherency to say much else.

 

Elektra takes that as consent to keep going, spreading him out with another finger and slowly moving deeper inside of him. Bowing his head to Frank's shoulder, Matt mutters another curse, lips following the line of Frank's collarbone. The pair of them kiss around him, Elektra moaning into Frank's mouth, and Matt feels the vibration of Frank's answer through his chest. A sensation swells up in him, not so much jealousy but greed, and he twists his head as much as he can manage, breaking between the two of them to kiss Elektra himself. She moans for him too, though Matt isn't given much time to cherish it; Frank grips him by his chin, turning his head back to crush Matt's mouth beneath his own.

 

 _Jesus,_ Matt thinks, his body growing slack and unsteady, and he sucks Frank's tongue when it enters his mouth.

 

“There you go,” Elektra praises quietly, pushing further the more pliant Matt becomes. She opens him up, moving faster, and Matt's breath hitches when she curls her fingers inside of him. Knees weak, Matt is unconsciously grateful that they're both surrounding him so securely; he doubts he'd manage to stay upright if they weren't. As she stretches him, Matt grinds uselessly up against Frank, too aware of the damp smear he's leaving on the rough material of his pants.

 

An incredibly weak sort of gasp breaks out of him when Elektra pulls away entirely. As overwhelmed as he feels, the sudden absence of it comes like a shock. His hips jerk back on impulse, and Elektra kisses his temple before she parts from him entirely, leaving him leaning heavily into Frank. He can sense where she's moving, her clothing being stripped and set aside, and the brief reprieve gives Matt just enough time to overthink things.

 

Shifting his arm where it's slung across Frank's shoulders, Matt grips a fistful of his hair. He wants Frank to speak; he wants anything at all that makes him feel less exposed compared to Frank’s steady, unending composure.

 

“What do you want?” Matt asks, and he feels some small shudder in Frank's chest. What does he get out of this? What does he need?

 

The response comes in the form of Frank picking him up – which comes with a surprisingly pleasant drop on Matt's stomach – and carrying him the short distance between where they stood, and where Elektra waits on Matt's bed. Frank sets him down, tugs the last of Matt's clothing off from where it hangs around his ankles (comically enough) before joining the two of them.

 

As Frank comes up behind him, Matt finds the answer to at least part of his question; though he had connected half as much as that already. There's a surprising gentleness in how Frank leans over him, chapped lips grazing across Matt's shoulder. When he finally speaks, at long last, his voice is quiet too – softly: “Let me?”

 

Eyes fluttering shut, Matt gives a shaky sigh, wetting his mouth with his tongue. “Yeah,” he replies quietly, “Jesus, Frank; yeah.”

 

As Frank swears, Elektra sighs, offering up whatever she used to wet her hands to Frank. With Frank preoccupied, she coaxes Matt closer, kissing him almost chastely in comparison to everything that's transpired. “I wish you could watch me,” Elektra says, her fingertips lightly tracing over his brow. “I can't wait to watch you.”

 

Is that part of what this is about? Matt is in no position to question it now, but the suspicion lingers. Had she been wanting Frank so badly, and this was her solution to avoid jealousy? Or was it simpler than that? Is it Elektra recognizing that same, familiar thread between them all, and deliberately attempting to tie them all together?

 

All three of them, with their aches and the holes in their chests; things lost and unfulfilled. If they put enough broken people together, would they form one solid human being?

 

She shifts back, giving Matt space to lean forward onto his hands and knees. He sinks down without any hesitation, which should be more concerning, but Matt can't bring himself to analyze his yearnings at this point. Anticipation thuds in the back of his skull, the volume doubling as Frank places one big hand around his hip. He’s so close to his cock, and Matt feels a tangible ache for Frank’s hand to just barely move, and give him even some mild relief.

 

When Frank pushes up inside of him, Matt's breath catches in his throat, lips parted for a soundless moan. As if speaking for him, Elektra gives an audible gasp, appreciative and eager all on his behalf. When Matt falls forward, forehead pressing to the mattress, she's quick to soothe, dragging her fingers back through his hair.

 

“Remember,” Elektra reminds, just close enough to brush her fingers through Matt's sweat damp hair, “deep breaths.”

 

The instruction is easier said than done. Matt's throat feels tight, his chest falling in short, shallow bursts of breath. Swallowing thickly, Matt clenches his hands into fists as Frank stills behind him. For as loud as his heartbeat is, he's holding back; concerned about pushing Matt past his limits. The idea seems near ridiculous, given the circumstances, and the longer Matt waits like this, the more eager anticipation builds in his gut.

 

“It's fine,” Matt manages, with what little breath remains in his lungs. Reaching behind him, he finds Frank's wrist and squeezes. “I'm fine – it's _good_...”

 

The latter half of that statement fumbles out on sheer delirious impulse. It's an honest admission. Once the initial shock of it dulls, the feel of Frank inside of him comes with a strange sort of aching satisfaction that Matt can't clearly define. Tightening his hold on Matt's hip, Frank answers him by arching forward, pushing until their hips meet – and whatever meager calm Matt obtained is sufficiently stolen again.

 

Elektra’s hands tighten in his hair, pulling enough to turn his head, so his words and moans aren’t muffled into the mattress. “How does he feel?” Elektra asks, her voice hungry in a way that Matt almost always associates with danger.

 

A breathless sound breaks out of him as his voice fails. Cursing, Matt twists where he's bent against the bed, nails pressing to his palms. He wants to tell her that he can’t describe it; even if he could find his voice between shaky gasps, he wouldn’t know what to say. Instead, on some gut impulse, his mouth works without his mind’s consent:

 

“He’s big,” Matt manages breathlessly.

 

Matt winces at himself, heat rising up the back of his neck. _He's big_ , is the one stupid, simple thing he could come up with? It sounds crude, somehow, but Elektra laughs and sighs like it’s the sweetest thing she’s ever heard, and there’s a tangible shudder in Frank behind him. The more he settles on it, the thought dominates his mind: he’s big inside of him and heavy behind him, worn hands with broad fingers holding him in place, filling him up and holding him down. Frank keeps hold of his hip, but his other hand comes to cup the back of Matt's neck – not pushing him into the bed but gripping firm, in a way that feels more secure than domineering.

 

And he likes it. There's a strange cathartic release that comes from finding himself prone like this, held down and stretched open and taking--... Frank starts to move, and Matt makes a noise that he's never heard escape his lungs before: a drawn out, needy sort of thing. Does this feel the same way for Frank? Is it the same sort of satisfaction and relief from something that he doesn't even realize has twisted up so tightly in the pit of his stomach? Matt can practically feel that tension unraveling with every thrust of Frank's hips, his cock hard and aching -- but somehow he’s happy for the denial, because anything otherwise might threaten to end this too soon. Stomach twisting, Matt buries his moan against his sheets, held there under Frank’s palm.

 

Distantly, he can feel Elektra’s weight shifting on the bed, and the clear sound of her mouth pressing to Frank’s. There’s the slick sound of her tongue, followed by Frank’s flinch when Elektra switches to her teeth instead. “Gentle with him,” she murmurs, not really not of any real concern for Matt’s limits or Frank’s abandon -- neither a genuine risk -- but purely seeking to rile. It works, given how Matt sighs, and how Frank’s hands tighten their grip.

 

Somehow, gentleness from Frank isn’t unexpected. Why should it be? Abruptly, a thought that is as much sad as it is inspiring rises up into his throat: wouldn’t Frank of all people know the importance of treating something gently? He’s steady and sure when he moves, with a significant trust for Matt’s endurance, and an acute awareness of how his body reacts. Matt groans and his head swims with the reality of it: of being wanted so badly and given so much that it threatens to overwhelm him.

 

That's even before Elektra cups his face, adding even more to assault his senses as her thumb pushes into his mouth. Frank gives up his hold on Matt’s neck, letting Elektra move him as she pleases. “God, look at you,” she says, her voice hot and hurried as she tilts his head up. “Come on, come here...”

 

She says that, but she's the one who comes to him: moving forward and guiding his head down between her legs. Matt's cheek presses to the inside of her thigh, and her intention is immediately clear. If he were more coherent, Matt might argue that he doesn't feel like he's getting enough air in his lungs to make this reasonable – but adrenaline and heady lust build together into a sort of hunger, and he's convinced that he's never wanted anything more in his entire life.

 

She always has that effect on him. Whatever it is about her, Matt can never clearly define -- and that’s the point, isn’t it? If it was so easy to put a name to what makes Elektra what she is, then it would be just another common thing. He’s never found that same addictive quality in another person; no one else has never been so utterly intoxicating.

 

“Open up,” Elektra urges softly, her hand pushing on the back of his head, guiding him down between her legs.

 

Matt can’t think of anything but obeying, his eyes fluttering shut. She’s warm and wet beneath his mouth, and she drags her fingers through his hair encouragingly. Shifting where his weight falls, Matt manages to move his hand up between her legs, stroking with two fingers to clear a path for his tongue to take. His head bows forward and his hand moves to her thigh, gripping there as he opens her up with his tongue.

 

Elektra gasps out, sharp and sighing, and her nails scrape pleasantly against his scalp. She pushes against his head, as if she wants him closer and closer, as if everything he could be giving her still somehow isn’t enough. He slides his tongue over her in what starts as slow, long strokes -- a steady rhythm that stutters once Frank increases his pace.

 

The noise Matt makes would be too whining if it wasn’t so muffled. He’s so hard, it aches, and he can’t bring himself to lift his head and ask to be touched. He’s too swept up in every eager sound Elektra gives, and denying her for even an instant feels worse than denying himself. He could touch himself; he could grab one of Frank’s hands where they sit on his hips and move them -- but he waits. He wants -- he isn’t sure what. That notion just presses like an echo in his head: he wants, he wants, he wants…

 

He wants to feel Elektra come. He wants to feel Frank come. He wants them both, and it’s almost more than he can stand.

 

There’s almost too much for Matt to process. He’s aware of Frank cursing behind him, both hands gripping tight on Matt’s narrow hips, needing to brace him there for the building rhythm of his thrusts. The slow, gradual way Frank opened him up is quickly fading, changing in favour of real, full movements. It makes Matt almost too acutely aware of every inch of him, steadily pumping in and out -- not rough but very explicitly _hard_. Matt can’t help a moan -- and  the vibration of it makes Elektra give a shaky sigh of her own in response.

 

Suddenly, the sensation of being so surrounded creeps up on Matt intensely: Frank behind him and Elektra in front of him, both of them taking from him and giving him no space to move. It’s something short of delirious, his heart pounding as his hand squeezes on Elektra’s thigh. As Frank fucks him, he’s pushing Matt impossibly closer to her, forcing him into a shameless abandon between her legs; nuzzling and gratuitous and sloppy.

 

“That’s it,” Elektra moans, her nails biting into the soft skin on the back of Matt’s neck. Showing no inch of mourning for the loss of technique, she grinds against Matt’s mouth, seeming almost giddy with seeing him so undone. “Like that--”

 

He can’t speak like this, but what would he say? It’s almost better to have his mouth occupied, to stop anything condemning from slipping past his lips: telling them it’s good, letting them know he can take it, asking both of them to use him. It’s intoxicating to be pushed between them, trapped between these two people who act more like a force of nature than human beings -- and who chose Matt to bear it all.

 

There’s barely any space for Matt to move, and either option is equally dizzying. He can lean closer to Elektra, unable to get enough of how she tastes, or he can move back against Frank, pushing even harder against his cock. He feels impossibly full of both of them, left gasping and arching restlessly between them.

 

It’s too much. Matt’s resolve breaks and he moves his hand from Elektra’s thigh to touch himself instead. The first bit of contact should feel like relief, but he’s too needy to feel anything except a heightened wave of pure, shameless _want_. He hears Frank swear, and his hand closes over Matt’s, forcing his grip tighter, and his strokes quicker -- matching the rhythm of how Frank’s hips snap against him. Elektra offers up some praise, sweet and adoring, and Matt soaks in it, but another element of her voice takes his attention: how she’s breaking into shorter, sharper gasps that tell just how close she is.

 

Familiarity betrays her; he knows what Elektra sounds like when she comes, he knows what parts of her body tense and how her breath stalls. He’s focused on her, so attuned to their familiar intimacy, that he doesn’t see those same signs in Frank until he’s practically undone. Blunt nails bite into Matt’s hips, and his thrusts turn short and forceful.

 

Matt’s breath turns shaky, and Elektra offers up words in his absence. Her hungry, eager approach isn’t what Matt would have offered, but the enthusiasm that makes his head swim when he hears her is the same: “Stay inside,” she tells Frank lowly, and Matt’s chest feels tight.

 

Frank pushes all the way inside of him when he comes, buried deep and spilling out to fill him. An immediate rush of something shameless and raw floods through Matt, and he whines against Elektra’s skin. Almost frustratingly silent, even now, Frank seems to bite down on his moan, but he’s panting at Matt’s back and shuddering. The break in stoic composure gives some satisfaction, but Matt’s own need overwhelms any brief smugness.

 

Frank’s hand still covers his own, warm and sticky with pre-cum. He can’t last, and the unsteady waver in Elektra’s voice proves that she can’t either. He just needs both of them to stay, just like this, as he rocks between them: fucking himself back on Frank’s softening cock, thrusting up towards their joined hands, and licking shamelessly at Elektra’s clit.

 

Elektra comes before he does. Her legs tense around him, her hands pulling at the short strands of his hair, and her voice breaks in that way he knows so well. She bows forward first when it hits her, then she arches back again, cursing and saying Matt’s name in a mixture of moans and laughter. After that, Matt can’t endure much else, his moan muffled against Elektra’s slick skin as he stains Frank’s hand with his come.

 

Matt is almost too shaken to move. Elektra shifts back to give him enough space to catch his breath, though her hands stay on him, stroking and adoring -- always overly affectionate in the aftermath. There’s a deliberate carefulness to how Frank pulls back from him, and Matt gives a low groan that’s more exertion than pleasure at this point.

 

He feels sticky with sweat, hot and short of breath, but very reluctant to lose closeness with either of them -- a sentiment which seems gratefully shared. A series of careful movements get them together again, though Frank seems expectedly uncertain of where to place himself. Elektra takes hold of Frank and drags him down, grabbing his wrist and licking Matt’s come off his fingers, cleaning them one by one. She sucks his index finger between her lips, explicit in a way that sends a dull ache through his used body that seems almost unfair -- and judging by Frank’s groan, the feeling is mutual.

 

In the wake of everything, these persistent gestures feel like a sucker punch. He’s already spent, and Elektra still can’t get enough of either of them. She kisses Matt next, having Matt taste himself while she does the same. It’s a strange assault to his senses: simultaneously crude and somehow sensual. She moans happily, delving deep then pulling back after one deliberate peck. Under her urging, Frank follows next, one big hand cupping Matt’s jaw as he presses close to taste Elektra on his lips. Matt sighs, mouth slack as Frank kisses him with a certain slowness; lingering -- appreciation. Matt wonders at that: if this has quieted some part of him, if it’s bled out some deeply rooted tension and is now leaving him subdued.

 

Elektra only seems content to finish after kissing Frank one more time herself, completing some shared exchange between the three of them. Coaxing Matt to rest his head on her chest, she settles back against the mattress -- and Frank explicitly doesn't follow suit.

 

Exhausted and shaky, Matt still manages to reach out, catching Frank by the wrist. He can feel his pulse there, thudding loudly and quickly. “Hey,” he says thickly, feeling sluggish but insistent, “don't go anywhere.”

 

Frank makes a noise, muttering as if uncertain but consenting all the same. He sinks down on the opposite side of Elektra, and she kisses his temple as if in gratitude for his compliance. Realistically, Matt knows it will be temporary, but considering everything, even this much feels like some measure of accomplishment.

 

If Frank's gone by morning, that's as much as Matt can expect, but at least he can fall asleep like this: with Elektra’s heartbeat under his ear and Frank’s pulse under his palm.


End file.
